July 9, 2012

I feel like no matter what I do, I’m going to slip into an early grave. I’ve got my right foot in the coffin and my left foot in the pool. I’m no longer at a “kill yourself” mentality most days but rather a, “haha, you’re going to die soon even if you don’t kill yourself so best enjoy this fuckin’ ride” mentality.

That’s an improvement right?

ha.

Look at me Monkey Man. I’m gonna die young like you!

I’m laughing like the Joker and whimpering with all the oxygen I have left.

I hope it ends quick, but clearly it hasn’t been. I can’t keep waking up like this–nauseated, shaky, dizzy, with a croaking frog lodged in my throat, with a well of tears backed up behind my eyes, with my stomach churning, my chest palpitating, my toes and fingers tingling and my lungs so out of breath! People with Osteogenesis Imperfecta (OI) tend to have heart and lung problems but I know this is due to anxiety, not my OI.

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Is this a panic attack?

Am I getting one every morning?

Is it the medications?

What the fuck man!?

Oh heavens…

I’ll admit, I took two painkillers and an Ambien last night because the jaw pain has gotten bad again. I don’t know why it’s gotten bad again but it has. I know I have to have the metal plate removed. I should just get it over with, but I’m afraid. The surgery I mean… because of how they fucked it up last time. Anyway, I only have three painkillers left.

I just don’t know what to do. Hang on I suppose. Hang on tight. Hang on clawing if I have to.

July 1, 2012

I was invited to a game of tag by Sailor and Angel. I thought I’d answer Sailor’s questions today.

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1. Do you think you could survive a zombie apocalypse and if so what would be your weapon of choice?

This is a difficult question Sailor. I had a long discussion with my brother about this not too long ago and here’s what I came up with: On one hand, I’m in a wheelchair, so I can’t run even if my life depended on it. I might get a few yards in but then my legs would break due to my brittle bones condition, I’d thus fall and the zombies would have me prey. I’m only three feet and two inches tall, so I can’t hold really big guns unless I strap them onto my wheelchair or rig it up with weapons. I could also be strapped to a person’s back, but that may slow them down making us both soon-to-be-dead-meat. Taking those things into consideration, I have a slim chance of survival.

BUT, then on the other hand, I’m so small that I might be able to slip into little, crammed areas where zombies won’t reach me (unless I run into a zombie that’s dwarf-size like me or a baby zombie). While the zombies are looking straight ahead, I could slip under them unless there are a few crawling. I’m also quick and agile, so I might be able to train with knifes and fight off the zombies that way. Also, if I’m caught in an attack near a pool or a lake or some large body of water, I can most definitely get away. My endurance in the water is incredible, so I’d be able to swim to a small island somewhere–granted I’d have to make it to the ocean first.

In short, I probably have a 30% chance of survival, which isn’t too great. I’d be one hell of a zombie though. I’d be killer with my surprise and sneak attacks.

2. If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Cheese! I can eat different kinds of cheese, right?

3. Do you think Noah had woodpeckers on the ark? If he did, where did he keep them?

Realmente no se. Tendría que abrir mi Biblia.

4. If space flight was affordable, would you go, just because you could?

I’ve always been fascinated with the universe and I love astronomy, so I most definitely would.

5. Would you very kindly draw me a picture of a bird and post it on your blog so I can add to my collection?

I’d love to! But I just spent too much time on the zombie-mouse which ended up funky looking, and then I realized it’s getting late here and I haven’t ate dinner. So here’s a picture of a bird I drew when I was in Florida back in January. Please ignore the random kids floating around the bird; they’re just doodles from my sketchbook but it’s all for you! (I’ll conjure up another bird eventually)

I thought Tarzan did have a beard. You got the Mouse very disappointed and confused Sailor. She’s banging at my skull now.

8. How old do you think you would be if you didn’t know how old you are?

Well, I’m the size of a five-year old, height-wise, but I’m definitely not a five-year old. So, I’ll go with ten, just ’cause I like even numbers and that’s the age my grandma kept saying she was when she had a stroke and started with the dementia.

9. Will you be joining me on my boat when I win the lottery?

Hells yeah! I’d love to ride the MFF cruiser. But then you might loose me when I jump in to join the dolphins.

addendum: I hate Facebook! And I’m having terrible anxiety today. 😦 I remembered about a call I got two weeks ago from a reporter at the Houston Chronicle. It’s about the DREAM Act and deferred action. I told her I was down for an interview. But then my phone got funny and I wasn’t receiving texts for a week. I just got an old message she left me today. I don’t know what to do… I mean, the last interview was nerve wrecking. I wrote about it here: Interviews and Anxiety, a Retort.

June 27, 2012

Of the few fellas in my life, you’re the one I blew away. But I may not be seeing all the grey and, well, I blew Monkey Man away too. God knows I blew him in more than one way…

But this is about you dear Dusty. You know, I think of you often dear, angry Dusty. I think of your strange, strange quiet ways. I think of the ways I blew you… away. I know you do too. Or at least I sort of hope you do. mmmmhhhhm. No hard, hard, hard feelings right?

Oh in so many places, in so many ways. You remember don’t you? That bathroom stall I nearly conceded to? I’d never been there. I liked it, that Continental Club–very rockabilly, very you. Oh, but I was too worried we’d get caught. Either way, either way, either way, I think I killed you. And I had no right to blow you… away.

Dear angry Dusty, my dear dear angry Dusty. Did you break that window because of me? Or was it her? Right, it was because you couldn’t get your fix wasn’t it? You were back from the mental hospital then, but not because of me. You needed help. But I did too, I just couldn’t see it then. I was in as much denial as you, or maybe I just made myself not care ’cause caring means caring TOO MUCH for me. Oh you see, either way, either way, I would’ve killed you before you’d have the chance to kill me.

Oh Dusty, Dusty, angry Dusty, this isn’t Jezebel, it’s Paz out of hell. Remember that night when we took that bad ecstasy? What horrible thing was it cut with? That’s what happens when you buy cheap X Dusty, if it was MDMA (probably bathroom cleaner). I thought I would die that night, but turns out I just blew you away.

And all you kept saying was, “Are you rollin’ yet?” But no, I wasn’t rollin’ yet. I was having a bad trip when my heart skipped. I thought I was having a heart attack Dusty! I could’ve died dear Dusty and you were so slow, “rolling” and dazed and confused; it took you a whole minute to realize I wasn’t feeling well! Were we both in hell?

“Yes, I think I’m dying! I think I took too much for my size Dusty, or this is cut with bad shit!”

So you finally got me some water and then we both drowned in each other… deeper and deeper, father and farther down… and then, with a bit more alcohol, we completely sank.

Oh, but worse than the ecstasy was that Ashley. Her? Oh dear Dusty, really? She was a pretty black girl, I’ll give her that much. But she messed herself up. I mean come on Dusty, it must’ve been because she got you into that terrible “white” as you called it.

You were so entertaining, even when you didn’t say a word for hours. You’re the first fella that made me feel sexy, beautiful even. But that may not be entirely true. It doesn’t matter now. We’ll go with that because you, you said my surgical scars were sexy. What a thought! Who would say that? Only you dear angry Dusty.

And you came back to me, either way. But then I killed you. I simply blew you… away. And you simply loved the way I’d simply blow you… away. My poems that blew you away, my words that blew you away, my pretty thick latin lips that blew you away.

Oh Dusty, Dusty. My dear angry Dusty, you were always so quiet, so stark, so angry, so sensitive. I had no right to kill you. Sir Jaques Cousteau Escargot, my geeky beau, may have torn my heart in two but I had no right to kill you. I had no right to kill you dear Dusty. And when you asked me to be your girlfriend and I said “no, I just wanna blow you…away,” but not in those words, I hope you know, I simply meant to blow you… away. I never meant to kill you.

So um, I don’t know what came over me. Or rather I do, but I don’t want to say. The night that I drank and cut, the night we celebrated my mom’s birthday, I made some rash moves, obviously. Well, one of them was that I contacted Dusty on Facebook. We hadn’t talked in over a year. I was afraid he might be dead like Monkey Man L. But nope, he’s still alive. Problem is, I’m trying not to be impulsive and I’m on a path to better myself, whatever that entails. I just don’t know if Dusty is done with a lot of that mess. And I sure as hell don’t want to get back into that mess.

Doesn’t that suck?

(Yep this is the one I was embarrassed about publishing. It’s a bit self-indulgent, revealing and quirky.)

DISCLAIMER: I’m using the “borderline girl” phrase as sort of a mocking/sarcastic term. There’s no such thing as a stereotypical “borderline girl”. You can have a condition, but you are NOT the condition and these songs aren’t necessarily written by or about borderline “girls”; they merely reflect certain parts of my life as I see fit. This is what they mean to me, someone who has been diagnosed as having BPD and is only beginning to work with herself and her deadly emotions.

June 21, 2012

Click the photo to enlarge and read the poem, unless you have amazing, super-zoom eyesight.

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I wrote a quick and silly small-stone poem today.

The photos are from several weeks ago when our spring “bug invasion” was ending. It hasn’t completely ended, neither has this card-making. My dad’s having me do two alternate versions (according to his taste). I’ll appease him.

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An astonishing thing happened today, he said, “You and your mother have changed so much. You are a different person!” He meant it in a good way. But then he added, “It’s a good thing God gave me patience [insert: to deal with you]… It’s a good thing I haven’t had to change much.”

What’s that supposed to mean? My dad is funny, and I mean this in… I don’t know how I mean it.

“We can all improve and change,” I said.

I know I’ve been a difficult person most of my life. But was I that terrible before? And how am I now? It’s funny, even when I get complimented by him, I don’t feel validated. I feel so small, so easily confused –lost and desolate like the ant. I can’t show him how much I’m hurting, how much I feel like I’m about to drown.

June 5, 2012

Like many of those diagnosed with BPD, I’ve had an issue with drugs, both illicit and prescribed. The first drug I got hooked on was alcohol when I was fifteen. Later on, there were others. I’ve never been addicted hardcore. I’ve always had a level of restraint despite my low impulse control, but mostly, I’ve just always had a lack of access. So I was always able to maintain a strong will with an air of sobriety and a high functioning persona, but the looming pitfalls awaited throughout the years.

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So drugs.

Isn’t this nation (U.S. of A) over-medicated? I think so. I’m currently rethinking and outweighing the pros and cons of going inpatient because of this urge to take the rest of the painkillers I have left and that just mean I’m afraid I’ll OD again. I think I’ll have to call New Male Therapist because I still haven’t heard back from that DBT group I was supposed to get screened to get into and the other three waiting lists I’m on. I’m hanging on though, barely, but I am. I’m really tired of the nonstop crying bouts, these random highs and lows, this susceptibility to triggers everywhere. It’s exhausting. I feel like fainting every morning. Ha. I just got a picture of a damsel in distress fainting and then a flutter of birds swooping in from the window to pick me up like a Disney-style Cinderella in her opening shower scene.

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Well, this “borderline girl” P feels a tad over-medicated sometimes. I feel like the drugs given to me by my psychiatrist are gonna kill me, sometimes, like now, I hope they do. Other times, like yesterday, I worry they will. I worry I won’t make it to thirty.

And why do they call illicit drugs “controlled substances” when prescribed drugs are substances just as, or more “controlled”?

And aren’t we just mere chemicals bouncing around? You know, quantum physics and shit.

We are the essence of substances which contain energy, more or less. That’s why I love to bounce to this beat, because it’s so energetic, maybe. It’s called none other than “Drugs” by the wonderful Ratatat.

Yeah, I have nothing else of interest to write since my “Good List” went to shit after I’d only written half of it and then I got another one of my mini breakdowns this weekend and on Monday, so I figured I’d just throw in another “Bordeline Girl Song of the Week” for filler… until I get my head on straight.

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By the way, our human bodies… I’m probably saying “human bodies” because I started watching Battlestar Galactica for the first time on Sunday to cope. Guys, I know, I have to get nerd/geek points for this or something–anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, human bodies. Our bodies produce a tad bit of DMT, one of THE MOST powerful psychotropic chemical compounds in the history of our existence. It is a naturally occurring substance that is also seen in plants like ayahuasca which is found in places like the Amazons.

The Amazonian shamans use ayahuasca it to get “into the spiritual” realm. You know, religious rituals and such. Well, I’m from Colombia, and I sometimes wonder if I ever get my legal/immigration and financial situation fixed, I’ll travel to my birthplace and after visiting family I’ve never met, I’ll go down to the Amazons and ask those shamans for a little hit of ayahuasca and give god/universe a high five, a kiss or a cursing scream (depends on my mood guys).

Oh, and now I know what this song reminds me of. Ahhh, yes, it reminds me of Jaques Cousteau Escargot. (It’s French spelling guys because he had a French name though he was adopted, so that’s what we’ll call him for now.)

Anyway, he’s the boy that broke my heart back in late 2007 (I was drinking and druggin’ every night by then). He’s the boy that triggered my Monumental Mental Meltdown in 2008. And that meltdown was what led me to see my first psychiatrist ever.

Thank you Jaques Cousteau Escargot! Thank you alcohol! Thanks to you two and my “borderline”self- destructive ways and my depressive susceptibility, I am now in a merry-go-round with the mental health system. You’ve led me to a revelation, though I happen to think I’m no better seeing it–not at the moment at least.

Drugs. Love em. Hate em. Nuf’ said.

addendum: Dear Dotty says Venus is going to fly over the Sun today! TRANSIT OF VENUS GUYS! I have not seen the news due to my current Battlestar Galactica addiction on my brother’s Netflix account and the fact that I don’t have antenae for HD conversion, so I don’t know what time it’ll be in your part of the world, but it seems like trippy stuff and you don’t have to take any drugs for the trip. Just look up at the sky (wear protective eye gear and punch a hole in a paper if you don’t have any special equipment).

June 3, 2012

Her red hair was suddenly blue, blue like a blueberry muffin on top of her scalp. I wanted to cup her and gulp it, gulp those mountain blueberry swirls, gulp her like the muffin she is. I wanted to eat her out completely. The coffee was hot, hot like me. I took a sip.

I waited for something but the silence was warm; it was a fine and kind kind. It was fine. Silence can be kind and fine with her in the air–she makes the silent air kind and fine I find. Yes. Kind and fine are the words for her.

“I like my coffee black,” I said, “Black and bitter like my heart. I do like it dark though, dark like my thoughts, dark like you,” I smiled.

And I gazed waiting for her to purr some more. I wondered why does everything I love run behind the fridge only to come back out from there to nibble–bite after little bite–tearing at me slowly until I become gangrenous? Is that why I feel like a zombie?